“We’re just about to open. I’m anxious and nervous as hell—that critic from theChronicleis coming in tonight.” She bit her lip.
She already smelled like tequila, so why not indulge? She downed a quick shot. She rarely drank on the job, but a little taste to take the edge off was always welcome.
“You’ll smash it,” he said, but he glanced behind him, as if his heart wasn’t really in it.
Alma rolled her eyes at her brother. “I should ask you what’s up. What brings you by on a Friday night? Don’t you have some game to attend?” Ever since Carlos had been a little boy, he ate, drank, slept, and breathed soccer. Nothing had changed.
“Nah. Taking the night off.” He paused and pursed his lips.Yup. He was going to ask her a favor. Alma would save him the trouble of working up to it.
“So, what do you want?”
He exhaled. As her only sibling, Carlos was super close with Alma, though they were nothing alike.
“Nothing. Just wondering if you thought more about sponsoring that Cinco de Mayo festival in the Canal?”
She pursed her lips. “Yes, of course I’ve thought about it. I’ll give money for sure, but I don’t know if I want to participate in the festival. It seems like pandering. Let’s bring the rich residents of Marin out to the Canal one day a year to get drunk and eat tacos and pretend they care about the Mexicans who live amongst them. They only ever went there if they wanted to go bowling because it was our last alley left, and now that it’s closed forever, they will never return. It’s like we only matter to them if we are scrubbing their toilets or mowing their lawns. I’d rather do more scholarship and outreach work than something like that. The festival is so cringe. And I can’t stand all of the influencers who show up.”
Influencers. She hated that whole industry. Making money on social media without really doing anything but promoting themselves and products. Alma was grateful that she had found her true calling.
Now it was Carlos’s turn to roll his eyes. “You’re a piece of work, you know that? It doesn’t matter why they come; it matters that they come. And my soccer team will be playing a game at Pickleweed Park. Maybe one of the coaches from the rich-ass private schools around here will show up and give one of my kids a scholarship. I normally can’t even get them to look at my boys.”
Alma pursed her lips. She appreciated Carlos’s passion, she did. Even so, it all felt so performative.
She closed her eyes and said a silent prayer. Carlos was right. It didn’t matter by what means she could help members of her community; it mattered that she helped them. Period. And if she had to resort to a day of watching the little boys play soccer while plying the spectators with tequila, she was game.
“Fine. I’m in.” She paused. “Are you actually hanging around here tonight? Or did you just make the trip all the way out here to nag me? You can text, you know?”
“I know. It just seemed impersonal for a big ask.”
“Ah, you’ll make someone very happy one day.”
“We will see about that.” Carlos grinned. “Since I’m here, I’ll hang out and help. What do you need me to do?”
It was nice having a capable, sane sibling she could rely on. He was a good man—a hard worker and not even remotely a misogynist. She had lucked out in the brother department. Her father was awesome too—worked sixty hours a week, always brought her mom flowers, and never missed a game or recital. Men like that didn’t exist anymore. Well, they did, but unfortunately, the only men she knew like that were related to her.
She reached behind the counter and tossed him an apron. “Barback. Ernesto called in sick.”
Carlos tied the apron on and went to work. No questions asked. No complaints about the unglamorous tasks. That was how they were raised. Work, work, work.
But sometimes, Alma missed having fun.
And now it was time for her to get centered.
The Marin County crowd, especially in Tiburon, was high-end and expected the best. With the median home price in this San Francisco Bayfront community around three million, Alma never thought she would actually live here, especially because she grewup tagging alongside Mamá when she would come to clean houses. Honestly, she had hated this town for years—resentful of its privilege when residents in her nearby community had nothing. But after she became a sommelier at a restaurant in downtown Tiburon on the water, everything changed. This place that had twisted herstomach into knots was a welcome refuge from the stresses of her life. Every morning before her shift, she would walk from her condo on the water to Blackie’s Pasture. The cool ocean breeze and the view of dogs frolicking brought such joy to her. After work, instead of hanging with her coworkers at a pretentious restaurant, she would have a drink at the iconic Sam’s Anchor Cafe, which was founded in 1920 and had a saloon that was fully operational during Prohibition.
It was at that iconic place steeped in history, between bites of her Dungeness crab and beet salad and sips of her prickly pear margarita, that Alma began her love affair.
But not with a man. No, she had only made that mistake once.
With something stronger.
More potent.
Something that soothed her soul.
Tequila.
For the Mexican-American sommelier, she had to admit it was a bit cliché, but once she had a taste, she became passionate about mezcal.
